


Warmth

by Macx



Series: Gray Areas [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-15
Updated: 2005-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:42:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macx/pseuds/Macx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Struck down with a strange kind of illness, Crowley has to deal with some truly bad changes... for a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth

**Author's Note:**

> Written after having a root canal. Is that a good excuse?

He felt cold. Terribly, terribly cold.

Demons didn't like cold, but Crowley had tolerated London bad weather, London winter and generally all kinds of worse climate over the millennia. He didn't like it, but he didn't really freeze. Snow was another matter, but he had survived snow as well, going about his demonic business as usual.

But today he was shivering. Freezing, actually.

Curled up in his bed, refusing to let his teeth chatter, the demon wondered if getting up was actually an option. Not really, no. Aziraphale was out of town on some stupid book fair and Crowley had refused to accompany him to something so boring and utterly dusty, it would make him want to throw up in a very bad way. Not even the prospect of a little mischief here or there had cheered him up.

It should have been a first sign, but since Crowley had never been sick, he didn't know what to look for.

Sick?

He growled softly to himself until his chest hurt.

Demons didn't get sick!

But he felt decidedly not like himself, and even getting partially skewered or halfway torn to pieces hadn't made him suffer this way. No, this was different.

He drifted off, still shivering, and woke again to a blaring car horn just below his window. He cursed softly, directing a very bad thought vaguely toward the car, and was rewarded by a gargling noise as the engine died abruptly and the horn wasn't far behind. If he had been more himself he would have added a bit of material damage, too. Like a major fender bender.

Staggering out of bed, feeling chilly and like he had been kept in a freezer for a century, the demon decided a hot shower would probably help. His back ached, his joints seemed to creak, and every thought was followed by a stabbing pain behind the eyes.

And thoughts of Aziraphale came more often now. He wanted the angel to be here, to touch him, take away this… sickness, but Aziraphale wouldn't be back until tomorrow.

Thrice-blessed book fair!

Crowley made it into his bathroom and switched on the shower, blearily blinking into the bathroom mirror.

And froze.

\-- which had nothing to do with the cold he fell.

Staring back at him was his face, paler than usual, the shock of black hair in stark contrast to the chalky skin.

He blinked. Just for the heck of it. He might be suffering from delusions.

The image blinked back.

Green eyes blinked back.

Human eyes.

Green, human eyes…

Crowley's hands clenched around the rim of the sink and he felt the nausea rise, but since he had never thrown up, he didn't know what it meant.

"What the bloody…?" he whispered, his voice sounded hoarse.

He tried to change the eyes back, but nothing happened. He didn't feel the drain of power that was usually accompanied by making his normally reptilian eyes look perfectly human. He felt nothing at all.

He felt normal.

Aside from the cold, the sickness, the chalky skin, the headache, the overall agony in his back.

Scrubbing at the eyes changed nothing. Clawing them out wouldn't either, he mused faintly.

Nausea rolling through him, he stumbled under the shower, starting to shiver anew when the hot water hit his cool skin. He lost himself in the pounding stream, the scalding liquid warming him, until he thought he was drowning. For a brief moment he felt almost good, but the second he was out of the shower and bundled up in towels, the cold returned.

This time his teeth did chatter.

Ignoring the eyes that weren't his, he shuffled back into the bedroom and collapsed onto his bed. He yelped painfully as his back protested and rolled onto his side. Moving his shoulders hurt. Whatever made him do it, he had no idea, but he freed his wings to spread them out. Maybe he was getting muscle cramps there.

Only that the wings wouldn't come.

The magic was there, the impulse, too, but the wings stayed inside, hurting like H… Whatever.

Crowley whimpered pathetically and curled up once more, miserable and cold and so alone.

Zira, he thought.

He wanted his angel. He missed his angel. He felt like crap and wanted someone sympathetic to be with him.

And if not an angel, who else could he count on being sympathetic to his misery? With a soft groan he rode out a new wave of cold that became a deep achiness. Demons suffered in Hell if they got on the wrong side of someone, which happened a lot of times, but even Hell could learn from this. It was worse than anything he had ever felt, mostly because of the loneliness and the cold.

So very, very cold.

 

*

 

Crowley hadn't been aware of dozing off again, but when he came to it was wonderfully warm. Deep down inside he was still cold and his limbs felt heavy, his head pounded right behind the not-his-green eyes, and the ache in his back wouldn't subside.

Someone touched him, ran so very gentle and comfortingly warm hands down his back and the ache lessened.

Crowley moaned softly, both in appreciation and relief.

His senses registered a familiar presence, so welcome and calming, that he tried to turn toward it.

"Shhh," Aziraphale murmured and continued his caress.

"Zira?"

"Yes, it's me."

Crowley made an effort to think, but the pain turned everything a bloody mess. "Already?" was all he managed.

"I cut my visit short."

Crowley blinked open his eyes once more, now looking at the angel, slightly perplexed. From the expression on the narrow, pale face, Aziraphale had discovered the eyes.

"Oh dear," the angel murmured. "That's… Why are you doing this?"

Crowley snarled, which sounded rather pathetic and more like a wet hack. "I'm not doing anything, angel! They turned green!"

And human. Disgustingly human. Gone was the slit pupil of his reptilian origin.

"Why?"

Sometimes celestial beings could ask the most stupid questions.

"I don't have a bloody clue!"

His anger spent, his energy, too, Crowley felt a new shiver race through him.

"And I'm cold. Wings won't come either," he mumbled, sounding like a pouting child.

Aziraphale ran those soft hands over his back and he winced when they touched a rather tender area; right where his wings should be.

"Don't touch there!" he finally almost-shrieked, though it was pathetically muffled in the blankets and a garbled mess of 'ntchere'. There might even have been a 'please'.

"My, my," Aziraphale murmured. "I can feel them, my dear. They're perfectly well there."

"I can't get them out!" Crowley hissed, screwing his eyes shut and curling into a tighter ball as the cold returned with a vengeance now.

To his utter embarrassment, the teeth-chattering started anew.

Aziraphale settled the thick blankets that cocooned him more firmly around his shoulders and then proceeded to unfurl his own wings.

"Rub it in," Crowley groused.

"Dear," Aziraphale only chastised and curled one wing over the sick demon.

He was an angel; he wasn't 'rubbing it in', though in Aziraphale's case the definition of angel was slightly off-kilter.

My bad influence, Crowley thought with a tinge of pride. He felt the soft feathers touch what little skin was still visible and a deep longing settled inside him. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes.

When the warmth came, he almost purred in relief. It seeped into every pore of his body, continued to multiply wherever it found cold, and soon he was in a wonderfully drowsy state of floating comfort.

 

*

 

Aziraphale couldn't say what had bothered him all day. He had taken the train to the book trade fair, looking forward to amicable chats with fellow collectors, browsing the offerings, sitting in a corner, drinking tea and reading. Part of him had been a bit disappointed that Crowley had declined his offer to come along, but he understood that books weren't really the demon's forte. He read them, he helped box or pile them, but he didn't have the passion the angel felt for them.

Well, not passion as in passion, Aziraphale corrected himself. He liked books. Passion was something more in the regions of him and Crowley together in….

He blushed slightly and pushed that thought aside. Not now; not yet anyway.

So when he had arrived, immediately immersing himself in the sight and feel and whole sense of old books and people who loved them, Aziraphale had wondered why it felt like something was wrong.

Maybe it was just the fact that lately he hadn't gone anywhere for a prolonged amount of time without Crowley. The demon had always been there, doing his own things while Aziraphale did his. They balanced each other in so many ways, Aziraphale felt unsteady without the other by his side.

So strange.

So nice.

So very, very warm and good.

Pushing those tender thoughts away, he continued along an aisle, pushing politely past a few browsing elderly women, and finally found himself in front of a book shelf full of old tomes.

And the feeling intensified. Something was not right. Not here, not in this huge hall full of history and paper and mouldy smells with the occasional moth ball found between romance novels from the last century. The feeling came from deep within Aziraphale and he turned more and more toward it.

Something was wrong with Crowley.

The thought struck him like lightning, but not in a very enlightening way. With it came fear and worry, wrapped up with the need to leave.

Turning abruptly, he almost bowled over a couple of bespectacled middle-aged men, who only shot him annoyed looks.

Aziraphale didn't care. Not-so-politely shoving past them he barely managed to keep himself from tripping over a shoe box full of gaudy comic books and ignored minor complaints from two teenagers who wanted to look through them. The angel felt part of him constrict as he moved on and on, heading for the exit, and he barely avoided crashing into a stand, mumbling excuses.

Outside, he leaned against a wall and concentrated on the intense sensation.

It was Crowley. It was the same he felt whenever he was around the demon, and he wasn't thinking of the affection and love right now. That he felt, too, but there was something else. Something that had started to develop ever since after the Near-Apocalypse. Something that had settled in and made a home the moment they had; settled in and made a home, so to speak. It was a kind of awareness of his counterpart; a sense of knowing him, able to sense him wherever he was, be able to pinpoint him. When Crowley had been hurt by the other angel, Evirel, Aziraphale had felt something similar to this, only not so pronounced.

Now it was stronger.

"Crowley," he murmured and pushed away from the wall, purposefully heading for the train station a few streets further down.

When the next wave hit him, he forewent normal transport and did what any self-respecting angel in a demon-related emergency would do – he unfolded his wings and took off. Whoever saw him would soon forget just what he had seen, would only feel a sense of urgency to be somewhere without knowing where and why.

 

 

Aziraphale touched down outside Crowley's flat in record time, feeling slightly out of breath, his flight muscles burning from abuse.

He didn't care.

Running into the building and almost crashing through the door, the angel wildly looked around, Crowley's presence very pronounced in his mind.

"Crowley? Oh dear…"

There, on the bed, curled up in a tight and shivering ball, lay his lover. Crowley's eyes were squeezed shut, he looked chalky white, and he was trembling as if cold.

"Oh dear," Aziraphale repeated, shedding his coat and leaving it where it fell. The scarf went next.

Crowley was cold to the touch, something demons weren't supposed to be. He whimpered when Aziraphale ran a hand over his face and suddenly his eyes cracked open, giving Aziraphale the next shock.

Green eyes.

Human eyes.

Green and human and with a round pupil, so not like the familiar snake eyes. There wasn't even the faintest trace of yellow or gold.

"Oh dear," he murmured for the third time, at a loss as to what had made Crowley change his eyes.

He knew how much it took out of the demon to hide his true eyes, the only feature he couldn't really change permanently. Wings and claws and fangs were one thing, eyes another.

The next shock came with the confession that the wings wouldn't come out and when the angel ran an examining hand over the tight back, he felt them all present and accounted for, though they were painfully curled up underneath the human skin. Like glued together and unable to get unstuck.

Crowley began to shiver again and Aziraphale bundled him up, spreading his wings to give additional warmth.

About an hour later he had Crowley curled up against him, as close as demonically possible, his face buried against the angel's hip. Now and then he would shiver, moan a little or whimper. Aziraphale would then induce a little more healing power into the chilled form as not to send him into shock by warming him up too quickly.

Could demons get colds?

Could demons get sick?

Or was it connected to the injury by Evirel just a few weeks ago? Was it some kind of delayed reaction?

Whatever it was, Crowley had ended up with green eyes and the inability to materialize his wings. Aziraphale cooed softly to the clinging form. As worried as he was, he still felt so much calmer than before.

He knew his demon would be mortified would he see himself now, he thought with only tenderness in his mind. Curled up close to an angel, one hand clutching at a feather from the huge white wings like a baby holding on to a favourite stuffed animal, and his face was so completely relaxed.

The tenderness multiplied and Aziraphale leaned down to kiss the still too cool skin. Crowley mumbled and sniffled a little, then quieted.

 

* * *

 

Crowley woke up in a rather sticky situation. He was literally plastered to a nice and hot body, wrapped up in blankets made mainly of feathers, some of which had come to stick in his mouth. He blinked his eyes open and had an unrivalled view of a smooth, angelic chest, creamy and pale and very delicious looking. His arms were around said angelic chest and for the first time in what seemed like years he felt truly warm. If he didn't feel so wasted, he might even have enjoyed the opportunity for some licking and fondling, but right now even the idea to move hurt.

A sigh escaped his lips, which prompted a soft, inquisitive noise from the angel in question.

"Crowley?"

"Mmpf."

"Do you feel better?"

Anything was better than what had been before. Alone and cold and miserable, shaking so hard his teeth had rattled, and the ache in his back coupled with…

His eyes!

He sat up abruptly. Well, he tried.

Tangled in feathers of divine origin he didn't make it far, flopping gracelessly back against his angel, who made soft tsking noises.

"Slow, my dear. Slow."

"My eyes!" he blurted.

"Yes, I noticed. They are a wonderful shade of…"

"Don't say it!"

"Green."

Crowley groaned in misery. "You had to go and say it," he muttered bitterly.

Aziraphale smiled. "Well, they are, though I don't know why. Are you sure you're not making them look like that?"

He shot the angel a scathing look, which was rather nullified by him snuggling back into the warm haven of his lover's embrace.

"'m not!" he growled.

Aziraphale stroked over his back. "Maybe it's part of whatever bug you caught."

"Bug?"

"You seem to be sick, my dear."

Demons didn't get sick! Demons were always in perfect health, doling out misery and illness to humans! Crowley hissed softly in annoyance, but it only made Aziraphale pet him again.

He grumbled dejectedly.

"Do you feel up for some tea?"

"Does it mean you leaving?"

A sandy eyebrow quirked slightly and Crowley sighed. "It does."

Another grumble.

"It'll only take a minute."

A minute was too blessed long! He was already feeling the first tendrils of cold come back. He really, really hated cold.

Aziraphale went and made some tea, leaving him curled up over the warm spot where his angel had sat, forlornly pondering what the bloody He.. thing was wrong with him.

"Here you go."

The voice of his lover drew him out of his thoughts and he uncurled enough to a) let Aziraphale come back to bed and b) hold a mug. His angel had foregone the saucer and cup, opting for the larger and handier version.

"I'm not sick," he muttered defiantly. "Just cold."

And achy, and tired, and green-eyed and wing-less and and and…

Frigging whatnot!

Aziraphale just stroked over his shivering form, exuding healing energy that at least took some of the discomfort away. Crowley sipped his tea, letting his angel work, trying not to think of a life without snake eyes and wings.

 

* * *

 

It took him two days to get marginally better, to no longer feel the chills, and it was unnerving. He didn't get sick! He had never been sick! Aziraphale still thought it was probably because of his recent injury by a demon destroying weapon, and finally Crowley accepted that explanation. The eyes still severely unnerved him, which he didn't confess to at all, but something Aziraphale knew already. He avoided mirrors and other reflective surfaces, and he wore the sunglasses in a show of defiance.

The wings got better, though it hurt like blazes to get them out. His angel checked them briefly, tenderly inspecting flight feathers, joints and whatnot, announced they looked fine, and finally told him to keep them inside for the time being. Crowley just continued to mutter curses under his breath, making Aziraphale wince from time to time.

"Really, my dear," the angel scolded him after a very nasty thought that had come out unbidden and quite loud.

Crowley just glowered furiously at him and continued to scare the books into order. He felt completely off balance in a bad way. His wings didn't work, his eyes were totally screwed and he didn't even want to think about anything else demonic on him. He had green eyes, for Chr… whatever's sake! Green! They didn't even look the least bit surreal like Aziraphale's sometimes tended to. Like when they made love.

He gnashed his teeth at that thought. Crowley felt physically as strong as a newborn kitten when it came to exertion and nothing Aziraphale did helped him in that department. The chills were almost gone, he didn't seek out heaters, ovens or fluffy blankets wherever he went, but aside from cuddling up to his warm angel, there was little happening.

Aziraphale contented himself sorting books, scribbling notes, thwarting customers who actually dared to enter and threatened to buy his precious books, and finally, he made tea. Crowley shuffled after him, muttering softly to himself and nothing was really meant for angelic ears – which picked it up nevertheless.

Aziraphale put on the kettle and looked at him, those mild blue eyes unnerving Crowley more than any avenging angel glare could. Aziraphale reached out and cupped one cheek, smiling.

"You've been a bit out of sorts lately."

The demon snorted. "Out of sorts?" he asked bitterly. "I'm not myself at all! Look at me!" He spread his arms, dislodging Aziraphale's hand from his cheek. "I'm bloody human!"

The angel chuckled. "Not at all. You may look slightly different, but I'm sure that won't keep. As for who you are, you feel as demonic to me as before, Crowley."

Slightly mollified, the other slumped back again. Aziraphale wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him into a kiss that Crowley didn't have the power to fight; or the real passion. It was so intimate and gentle and tender, so completely Aziraphale, he moaned against his will. The passionate kisses were hot already, but when Aziraphale kissed like that, Crowley almost melted into his arms. Holding on to his angel, he wanted more, wanted him more, wanted him close.

"Can't even do that," he whispered and let his head sink against one shirt-clad shoulder.

Aziraphale finger-combed the tousled hair. "It's not the definition of our relationship," he said softly. "This is how we've been for six millennia."

"So?" Green eyes blazed angrily. "That's why I think what we had the last months warrants repetition. Quite often! It's hot, I love it, you love it, we're good together between the sheets and I you blessedly well know that I want to fuck you through the sheets whenever possible!"

It exploded out of him in a wave of frustration, pain and everything else. Crowley had never felt so completely and utterly at a loss, so alone in the world and unbalanced ever since that thrice-blessed bug, virus or cold had hit him. If this was Evirel's doing, he would find the bugger and give him back some of what he felt right now. Bloody stupid angel!

Aziraphale had the good manners to blush for a second, though his eyes were twinkling in a very non-embarrassed way.

"Give yourself time to recover."

"I don't have a virus!" the demon snarled, but he didn't fight the calming embrace, nor the kiss that silenced him.

When the kettle whistled, Crowley just waved it into silence because kissing Aziraphale took priority over every other activity at the moment, and it really did wonders to his moods.

 

* * *

 

It was on the fifth day of his torment that Crowley thought he saw a change in his eyes. As much as he hated mirrors, he still sought them out occasionally to check on the color.

It stayed green.

He started to hate green.

His anger had been turned on whoever crossed his path and just because he felt like it he emptied all ATMs in the City of London for the rest of the day, leaving people complaining to the banks, running around with no cash and bills to pay, and the moods taking a dive to the deepest bottom. Feeling marginally better for the chaos he had created, Crowley went home, tempting a few people here or there on the way.

He noticed the difference in color when he passed by the wretched little mirror in the hallway that Aziraphale had rescued from his wrath the first day of the change. The green was different. It looked more yellow. Right?

Banging the door shut after himself, he raced over to the bookshop and stormed into the little place, bowling over an elderly woman in his wake.

"Crowley, really…!" Aziraphale began to protest, then eeeped as he was snatched by the arm and pulled into the back room.

"You see that?!" Crowley gestured at his eyes, trying not to be excited.

"What?"

"Don't play dense, angel!" he snapped. "My eyes! You see it?"

Aziraphale peered into the green orbs, then frowned a little. "They do look different, my dear. Did you have your coffee?"

Crowley hissed and pushed his angel against the wall, moving so close Aziraphale's eyes started to cross.

"Oh…" the angel suddenly said. "Oh!"

And a smile appeared on his lips. One hand rose and careful fingers ghosted over the sensitive skin around Crowley's eyes.

"Oh my…"

"They're turning back," the demon whispered, brushing his lips over Aziraphale's. "They're turning back, Zira!"

"I told you so," came the soft whisper.

There was a scratching noise, like someone cleaning an old, rusty pan, and the pair turned. Aziraphale flushed. The old lady was standing in the door to the back room, waving a book, her eyes dancing behind the glasses.

"If you would be so kind…" she began, a smile on her lips, and gestured at the book. "I really hate to interrupt, though. You do look lovely, my dears."

Flustered, embarrassment in every twitch, Aziraphale pushed Crowley away and bustled out into the shop. The old lady winked at the demon.

"Quite a catch, that cute young man."

Crowley was mildly flustered himself and at a loss at what to say.

"You do look very good together. Don't lose him."

And with that she was out front again, paying for the book and leaving after talking to his angel and winking a few more times. Aziraphale closed right after her, looking a bit undone as he returned to where Crowley still stood.

"Oh, this is so bad!" the angel moaned. "If she tells anyone…"

Crowley shrugged. "Let her. Might liven up the business."

Aziraphale looked shocked again. "Liven it up?"

Crowley leaned forward. "Think… five customers… per hour… every day…"

The angel blanched and Crowley snickered a little. He was rewarded with a slap to the upper arm.

"You!"

He caught Aziraphale around the waist, in a very good mood, feeling on top of the world.

"Dinner?"

"It's only four!"

"Then we've got time to kill."

"Crowley…"

A kiss silenced the protest and Aziraphale moaned enthusiastically as dextrous fingers slid underneath the layers of clothes and found soft skin.

 

 

"Looks like the eyes aren't the only thing returning," Aziraphale remarked lazily, running caressing fingers over Crowley's well-defined chest.

The demon growled softly, flipping them around to straddle his lover. Eyes that had started to shift between green and yellowish green gazed into laughing blue ones. The wings were still a problem but didn't ache any more, and he felt the tingle of claws if he really concentrated.

"Dinner?" Aziraphale reminded him, taking the opportunity of Crowley above him to run those maddening fingers over his chest again.

"Screw dinner!"

A sandy eyebrows twitched both in criticism at the words and amusement.

Crowley leaned down and breathed a kiss on those reddened lips that had suffered a kiss assault already.

"I'd rather stay here. With you. All night."

"In the back of my book shop on a dingy mattress?"

"'S fine," the demon breathed, delivering kisses and bites to the willingly offered neck until he could suck at one particular place. The hickey would still be there tomorrow, he knew.

Aziraphale didn't protest, just held him tight.


End file.
